


House Arrest

by Sodafly



Category: James Bond (Movies), Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Asexual Q, Friendship, Gen, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-25
Updated: 2012-11-25
Packaged: 2017-11-19 13:42:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/573877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sodafly/pseuds/Sodafly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Q doesn't even pretend to be easy to live with.</p>
            </blockquote>





	House Arrest

**Author's Note:**

> Major cannon spoilers  
> This will most likely be re-edited in the morning so I apologize for any shoddy proof reading. Also this isn't a shipping fic , but if you wish to read it that way then you may.

“Excuse me for speaking frankly sir, but I fail to see what this has to do with me.”

“Understandable Q, but you, like everyone else in the entire secret service, knows 007’s nature. He’s hard to contain.”

Of course he know the nature of 007, it’s notorious to say the least. But that makes no difference, it explains nothing. It is not Q-division’s fault that Bond breached protocol yet again during an assignment in Washington. That is purely the fault of reckless agents getting too big to fit their shoes.

“To put it mildly, the Americans are bloody furious.” As furious as M? Maybe greater so. The CIA are always hard to work with. “They only let us have him back on the grounds he is suspended from duty, like that would make any difference.”

Mallory is fast matching his predecessor when it comes to exasperation concerning James Bond. Q shifts, unsure if his presence is still acknowledged, or if he’s just witness to an outspoken internal monologue as M paces back and forth behind the desk. He takes a moment to gage the surroundings; it is not often that people like him get to go into the head office. Communication is mainly through code or telephone, locked safely away in the computer hub a few floors billow.

“The point is Q; I need someone who is responsible enough to keep a keen eye on the fellow whilst continuing their work, which is where you come into play.”

The analysis of the proud looking painting on the rear wall is interrupted by the bottom of Q’s stomach falling away. Dread is not a familiar feeling, yet it is there all the same. The apprehension is so sudden it takes him by surprise. He openly scowls at M in an act of pure defiance.

“Sir-”

“You will be able to continue your work in the comfort of your home. You’ll still be able to manage your department and receive a bonus once this whole pretty mess has blown over.”

A bonus would be ridiculous, his salary is large enough as it is, the promise of more does not send a warm shiver down his spine like it would the greedy or the self-righteous.

“With the addition of Bond under house arrest in my home” Saying it aloud makes it all sound worse. Discontent is unmissable, as is the undeniable fact that no matter how much he wants to, Q cannot refuse. The decision was signed and sealed before the news even reached Q’s ears. The very idea of having to share living space is bad enough, let alone with someone as difficult as Bond. Mallory stops pacing.

“Yes.” Is the simple reply.

Needless to say, Q is a lot less than cheerful on the tube journey home, glaring at the plastic and gripping so tightly to the rail his knuckles threaten to split the skin. It’s not like he’s ever jumping for joy on the journey home, the job is stressful and demanding and the tubes close confines does little to ease the daily strain, but there has rarely been any true reason to feel like a black day has occurred.

Until now.

It’s not that he doesn’t like Bone, he does, but by his very nature Q is a private person who enjoys the solitude within the walls of his apartment once the day is done. The thought of having that particular routine broken is enough to propel the Quartermaster into a bad mood.

“They don’t waste much time.” Q says when the elevator opens to reveal 007 leaning against the wall besides Q’s front door. The escort from MI6 looks passive, well too aware of one’s own inadequacy when standing next to James Bond. Q doesn’t feel that inadequacy, he can do all the things Bond can’t, and that is compensation enough.

“I’d be making myself comfortable, but didn’t fancy trying to access the Quartermaster’s flat. Also I’m rather compromised don’t you think?” Bond glances down at his handcuffed wrists, fingers flexing. Q wonders briefly how long they’ve been there, whether they’ve been stood there in the corridor since Q left that morning, or whether it’s only been a few hours...minutes even.

“Wise choice.” Q breezes to his door, swiping his card through the locking system and pushing the door open with his hands splayed. It’s more complex than it looks, or at least internally it is. No Q-master would leave their locks without modifications and still call themselves deadly. Only a fool would settle for the mediocre locks in these pathetic little security systems.

The apartment is open, the wide windows letting in grey light through the rain speckled pains. It’s large and open, the bedroom door has been left wide open and there are mugs and plates scattered over the available flat surfaces. A dyer is airing out clothes in the corner as there is no balcony; his personal laptop is abandoned on the sofa where a stack of books is steadily building by the armrest. It’s what Q likes to call ‘organized chaos’; he knows where everything is, it’s just the presentation that isn’t quite up to standard. It’s not like he gets a lot of visitors anyway.

Bond is glancing around, but if he’s thinking anything he’s not giving it away.

“Oh, best leave them on, wouldn’t want him touching anything he shouldn’t.” Q says when the escort goes to unlock the handcuffs around Bond’s wrists.

“I’m not a child Q, I can handle myself.” Bond says, directing his gaze away from the poster of Einstein on a bicycle towards the younger. Q scoffs.

“Evidentially, that is why you’re under house arrest, because of your ability to handle yourself.” The sarcasm is uncharacteristic, but as far as he’s concerned Q feels he has the right to be just a little pissed off by the invasion of privacy. It’ll die down in a matter of hours; he never has been good at holding a grudge.

Bond opens his mouth to say something, but Q has already turned on one heel, dumping his bag onto the nearby kitchen island before finding the rarely used closet to fetch the spare bed linen. The avalanche wires and spare parts from disassembled computers , hard drives and other electrical appliances that happens in result of opening the door, reminds Q exactly why this closet is rarely used. Once the spare bed linen has been gathered, he attempts to kick the tumbled parts back into their original space, before giving up entirely and leaving the mess of wires sprawled on the wooden floor. He’ll tidy it up later...maybe...when he remembers to.

The door has already closed. The escort has disappeared. Bond is stood there look out the window. The apprehension still hasn’t left and the bottom of Q’s stomach still hasn’t be rebuilt.

“You’ll be staying in the spare” He cocks his head in the direction of the door closest to the kitchen, tucked away almost out of sight. The bathroom is next to it, on the complete opposite end of the apartment to his own bedroom with its open door. Bond takes the bed linen from his arms with a nod.

“There is just one rule” Q feels stupid just saying it as the likeness of it being obeyed is small.  He gestures towards the closed door next to his bedroom. “That room there is out of bounds, but seeing as I’ll be working at home these days that won’t be a problem”

For once Bond doesn’t question it, maybe it’s the jet lag, or maybe he’s just as pissed as Q is about the whole situation, but there’s no denying that little look of defiance that lurks just beneath the surface as Bond walks towards what is now his bedroom

*

The thing is Q is rarely at home. Of course he goes home at the end of the day, but it’s to sleep and to wash himself and his clothes before the odour gets noticeable.  But it’s not like he’s home every day at six to have dinner and watch television before going to bed at a reasonable time. No he’s lucky if he can get the last tube home and avoid taking the night bus, he’s lucky if he sleeps at the end of a twenty-four hour sitting. Despite the odd plate dotting the kitchen countertops, Q doesn’t really eat at home, he drinks coffee and tea which is made obviously by the sheer amount of mugs scattered about.

Needless to say, being home at 11pm makes Q restless, drumming his fingers on the desk and not quite knowing what to do with himself. He’s not focusing on the work he should be doing, just glancing at the desktop clock, chewing the neck of an old sweater and untangling the irritating knots in the thick headphone cord. Eventually, he gives up, logging off the system and shutting down the computers. The security falls into place immediately, as does the automatic locking system when the door closes. His life’s work lies behind that door; no one is allowed to access it easily.

“Have you ever watered this?” Bond asks as soon as Q emerges. He’s got the wilting leaf of a house plant, which looks more than a little sorry for itself between, two fingers. Depressed would be a more accurate description.

“Once.” When he first received it, a house warming present from a mother for a home she never gets to see.  Bond huffs with amusement, a tiny smirk on his lips. MI6 agents are not famous for their ability to preserve life on a small scale; it’s the reason why very few of them have pets. Q would be better off looking after a rock; even then he’d probably misplace it.

“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Q asks out of curiosity, flicking on the kettle and fishing stale bread to put into the toaster. He hasn’t eaten in ten hours.

“I could ask you the same.”

“I’m not the one who has just spent four days in a different time zone.” He makes a mental note to buy more tea bags as there is only a handful lounging at the bottom of the tin. Bond is moving around.

“Don’t mother me Q.” The statement is edge with irritation, a simple sign of tiredness, but Bond is too stubborn to admit it.

“Then don’t act like a child 007”

*

Q doesn’t even pretend to be easy to live with. He’s never had to since leaving university, and even before then there weren’t very many people about. People tend to flee from genius.

The alarm sets off at 4:30am after a grand total of five hours sleep. It’s more than usual, the night before it had only been three hours. Having to leave work early means having to get up earlier the next day to cover the missing work, there is no rest for those keeping Britain safe.

Shutting off the beeping, Q sits up, scrubs the heel of his hands over his eyes and hair before grabbing his glasses from the bedside table. Slipping on a random jumper from the floor, he flings the duvet aside and goes to make the first cuppa of the day. Q doesn’t know if he’s a morning person or not, he’s just a person, awaking when needed without complaint.

The apartment is silent. Bond has finally accepted the need to sleep off the jetlag and for a brief second, Q feels a little guilty about having to work this early in the morning, but that’ll teach the agent to get himself into an awkward situation. These are habits that have developed over time, and Q will be damned if he forces himself to give them up so easily.

There’s a hole in the cuff of his jumper, he slips his thumb into it.

Tea made to perfection, the work can finally start. Keying open the door to his home workstation, he warms into the comfortable chair, boots up the computers and leans over to switch the volume up to full. Palladio: I Allegretto immediately plays, violins building up and filling the crushing silence. He taps his fingers on the desk in time as the system loads, signing in his MI6 details.

There are emails sitting in his inbox from other members of Q division, updating their progress on projects and repairs, uploads schematics for new weaponry. An email from head office details the inventory of equipment, significantly reduced as agents keep forgetting to keep their items safe. It isn’t just 007, all the double-oh’s have a habit of doing it, and it’s not as if Q-branch is made of money. There’s also a massive list of tasks needing to be completed in the shortest time possible to the highest quality.

It would all be so much easier if he could actually leave the apartment.

“Is this a habit?” Q almost doesn’t hear Bond’s sleep husked tone, delivered- and wisely so- from the other side of the open door frame.

“You’re going to have to elaborate.” Q doesn’t turn in the seat, busy typing out replies to the members of his branch, keeping them in control despite his absence. The computer to his right shows the security cameras situated inside his department, no one is allowed to get away with slacking in the bosses absence.

“The music, is it a habit?”

Palladio: I Allegretto has changed to Summer III Presto.

“Classical is only for when I’m working. Also if you step a single toe into this room then the alarm and shut down system will go off. I don’t fancy overwriting that right now.”

Bond huffs, but edges away from the door. Q can’t hear the exasperated grumbles that follow Bond in his wake.

*

“You still have to come in for the department meetings.” Eve says down the phone line. It’s 9am, and the five straight hours of work is finally being broken. Q sits back in the chair, swivelling it from side to side, twirling the arm of his glasses between finger and thumb.

“Can’t, I’m babysitting.” Bond still hasn’t emerged since their brief encounter in the early hours. There’s no sign of him milling about the apartment through the open door. Maybe he’s still sleeping off the jet lag.

“Well, you need to leave your apartment at some point and the board meeting in the best time. M still expects to see you every Friday morning with something worthy to say.”  Eve has that matter-of-fact tone she’s started using way too often.

“M told me not to let Bond out of my sight, what am I supposed to do? Bring him in a leash?”

“You’re the one who said it.” She hangs up the phone

*

Bond, having finally arisen from jetlagged slumber, is lying on the sofa reading ‘The Shinning’ when Q emerges. The sky is dark, London’s city lights like a fallen constellation. It’s never truly dark, that’s why the shadows are so small to work in these days, thanks to the very bright light of the media, of society, of the hungry curiosity constantly beating down upon them.

Bond is already half way through the book. Neither of them speaks to the other.

*

It is surprising really, the way they ghost around one another. Mainly because Q locks himself away with his work and drowns out any distracting noise, but when he’s not surrounded by computers and wires and boiling over with pressure, Q and Bond don’t really speak. They sit in the same room as one another, eating with the odd passing comment, but they are not up for conversation.

Q wonders if it’s in response to M... the previous M that is.

Either that or he’s still pissed at cocking the Washington assignment. It’s only been three days after all. Three days of surprising ease.

But Q knows that this surprising stillness cannot and will not last, so he leaves the apartment for the first time since Bond’s arrival. The alarms are set to high alert, customized iPhone ready to activate any necessary lockdown codes in case Bond gets any fun ideas about leaving. Q’s head is resting on too many chopping blocks right now to even risk losing 007. He picks up heavy liquor in the nearest off licence and food in the corner ship across the street. He also picks up some keyboard cleaner. After all a clean keyboard is a happy keyboard.

“Never thought you were the liquor type.” Bond says as soon as Q shoulders the door open. Somehow, Bond has found the expensive, half empty bottle of Russian vodka he keeps under the sink. He’s sat at the kitchen island, cap undone with a just filled shot glass looking lonely on the black marble.

Q dumps the bags of bottles on the countertop, and Bond’s eyebrow quirks upwards in question. “For you. May alcohol keep the boredom at bay.”

There no need to mention that the bottle of vodka in question was a gift welcome gifts from Q-branch.  There’s also no need to mention the mostly full packet of cigarette kept at the back of the draw of his bedside table. Experimental stress relief.

Bond looks amused, peeling down the plastic to evaluate the bottles of tequila and whiskey.

“Get yourself a glass Q.” Q obeys despite himself, tipping the liquid into the tiny glass and sitting across from Bond at the kitchen island. His feet hook onto the bar stool legs. The vodka burns a smooth trail down his throat, warming his stomach which is no longer broken with dread. He pours another shot.

“You’re not used to living with others.” Bond states after matching Q’s shot.

“Who in MI6 _is_ used to living with others?” It’s a good point; MI6 is just a foster home for lonely souls. “But I know you want to show off, so please 007, tell me how you came to that conclusion.”

The tone is mocking, but the amusement is still present.

“You have a habit of leaving all your doors open, an unconditional clutter, ridiculous posters show a self centred decorating nature and not to mention that racket you make in the early hours of the morning.”

“It isn’t racket, it’s work.”

“Surely you don’t get away with making that much noise down in Q-branch?”

Q snorts.

“No, but the environment is different down there.” Never had Q felt such a longing to return to his beloved station, to its wall sized screen and its sleek desks and sterile lighting. He even finds himself missing the dark little staff room with the coffee machine that has been tampered with too many times for it to even produce anything decent anymore.

“And there is nothing ridiculous about Spock or A New Hope.” Judging by the blank expression, Bond has probably never watched a single Star Wars film or anything to do with Star Trek, meaning all pop-culture reference will be lost. 

They drink more. Tongue loosened, the constant stream of data, codes, and information that runs through Q’s head at all waking moments, starts spilling out through his mouth. The feeling of annoyance and admitted awe when Silva got his hands on the codes Q had invented, it was a kick in the balls to be fighting something he made, yet it is somehow gratifying when looking back on it all. He dares not say it to anyone else in MI6. No one has uttered a single syllable about Silva since the day it ended. 

“You’re very typical Q” Is the interrupting sentence.

“Pardon?”

“You’re very typical of those who work down in Q-branch.”  Q smiles.

“If the term you’re looking for is complete and utter nerd, then yes I must agree.” He points a finger into the empty space between them. “Built admit it, you’re a complete cliché.”

“We’re all clichés.” Bond says with a hint of amusement “Even you.”

“Indeed, I have the cardigans and the fair share of school time bullies to prove it.” The bottle is a quarter of the way full. Bond takes the bottle to top up Q’s shot glass before raising his own in the air.

“To clichés then.”

“To clichés”

The glasses clink together.

*

When Friday’s board meeting arrives, Q doesn’t take Bond with him. He can almost image the havoc it would cause, can practically see M’s pissed off glare staring him down, so the decision to leave the double-oh in the apartment is a unanimous one.

“I’ll be gone for most of the day, the security systems will go off if you try anything.” Q says as pulls on the parka coat. It’s tipping it down with rain, water pouring in a waterfall down the window panes. Bond waves a hand from the sofa, a copy of ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’ open in one hand.

“What did I say about mothering me?”

Q rolls his eyes, darting back to grab an umbrella before opening and shutting the front door. There’s a bubble of excitement swelling in his throat as he makes his way to the tube station. It reminds him briefly of the confident, yet nervous excitement he felt when stepping into MI6 for the first time, back when the building was sleek and open with plenty of daylight. 

“You could have at least worn something respectable.” Eve tuts like a scolding mother, tearing the rain soaked parka off his back. She grumbling about how the other ‘heads of departments’ think he’s enough of a child as it is.

“And I’ve missed you too Miss Moneypenny.” She replaces the half full polystyrene cup of coffee with a glass of water, adjusting his tie.

“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say your new house mate’s nature of rubbing off on you.” She quirks a smile and hands him the summary of last meetings minutes. Q sighs.

“You offend me by saying I’m turning into an over confident flirt. Forgive me for disagreeing.” He takes back his train station coffee and slides past Eve into the meeting room. It’s all fun and games between the two of them.

“You might want to visit your friends down in Q-branch” Eve mutters into his ear before he takes his seat “I believe there’s a present waiting for you there.”

M walks in, looking worn but strikingly well dressed, and the meeting starts.

*

If there was enough time, Q would spend some quality time staring at the much missed department. He wants to kiss that massive computer screen as he slides his palm over the smooth surface of his work bench.

But he can’t, because Christmas has arrived early...very early indeed.

Fuck the computer screen; he definitely wants to kiss the high-tech, heavily encrypted hard drive currently in his hands.

“You really are a massive geek.” Eve teases, watching a delicate pink flush of excitement tinge the tips of Q’s ears as he marvels.

“Do you have any idea what this is?” The question is rhetorical; of course Eve knows what it is “This is the latest in Chinese technical engineering. Right here, underneath some of the most complex coding in the world lie...well I don’t know what lies there, but it must be something considering the amount of protection it was under. This technology and coding must have taken years to develop-”

“Before you have some kind of orgasm, I should remind you that not only is that a development of yet another cyber terrorist unit; there’s a twin still out our reach and the only way we can access and dismantle it is through that drive. Any information should be reported to M immediately”

Q waves a dismissive hand, connecting everything up to his laptop

“Of course.” He says to Eve, swivelling the chair around and taking a swallow of tea. He gazes deep at the thick net of coding and protection and to himself says “Why do espionage, when the world is at your fingertips.”

*

The hacking is complex and time consuming and would be utterly frustrating if one didn’t keep a cool head. After being engrossed for almost four hours, Q is rudely interrupted by an obnoxiously loud siren going off. In all honestly, it scares the living daylights out of him and several other members of Q-branch.

“Shit.” He mutters, rolling his chair to the other end of the station and watching the bright red flashing warning that someone is trying to break into his home office light up the screen. The frustration suddenly creeps upon him.

Bond picks up the phone after the fourth ring.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” The snapping is uncharacteristic, but now is definitely not the time.

“Testing.” Bond says in that stupidly smug tone of his “Delivers quite the electric shock that lock”

“Did you really think trying to break into my computer lab would be an appropriate way to pass the time? I seriously doubt you’d be able to successfully break in even if I get you instruction on how to do it.” The stress is mounting, as is the sleep deprivation, resulting in the clipped edge.

“Now you’re just trying to hurt my feelings Q.” Is the faked innocent reply.

“Drink the alcohol instead, it’ll hurt less.” He hangs up, resetting the security. He desperately wants to scream.

*

After the Silva attacks, Q-Branch is under an enormous amount of pressure. Not only are they still trying to redevelop all the complete and in progress equipment lost in the explosion, but they now have the long process of backing up security, strengthening security, placing layers upon layers of encryptions on precious files and so much more. It’s enough for Q to want to tear his hair out.

He takes a thick case with a fully developed project home with him in order to assemble it. He hasn’t slept in two days.

Bond has an ounce of whiskey and is still reading ‘To Kill a Mocking Bird’ when he arrives home.

“Welcome home dear.” Bond mocks from the sofa .

“Direct your boredom elsewhere 007” Q replies, not in the mood for theatrics at 11:30pm. Instead he throws the parka and umbrella onto the nearest flat surface( the floor) and proceeds to dumps his bodyweight in the leather chair of his office. There’s still work to be done, and his head is buzzing, lines and lines of numbers, data, coding, passing through the fast track motorway of his brain.

Q is not too sure when he fell asleep, but he does so anyway; head down on the keyboard, a paragraph of meaningless digits zipped across the screen. When he wakes up, he’s in his own bed, with shoes and jumper removed but the rest of the attire left on, glasses folded on the bedside table.  The door is left open.

Seems Bond didn’t set the alarms off when it most mattered.

*

“A shag would probably do you good.”

Q almost drops the plate from his hands. He’s emptying the dishwasher after waking from a much needed, 12 hours long sleep. It’s midday and the dark grey light outside does little to light the open plan apartment.

“Excuse me?” Glancing over his shoulder at Bond who sits, eating a sandwich, at the kitchen island, Q grips onto the plate for dear life. There’s a sly smirk peeking out from under the rim of the glass of water as Bond takes a sip.

“Sex.” Bond deadpans “Might help you relieve some that stress you carry.”

“If you’re offering then I must decline.” Q hopes he’s not blushing, hopes his flustered state isn’t showing. Which it most likely is given Bond’s chuckle.

“”I meant a woman...or a man, whichever floats your boat.” Abandoning the plate, Q distracts himself by cleaning his glasses on the edge of his sweater.

“For you maybe.” Bond is going to say something stupid like ‘not just for me’ so Q speaks up again. “You see, sex doesn’t really- as you say- ‘float my boat’”

He mumbles, feeling stupid for having to explain this to the agent infamous for fucking anything that shows a mild interest. So instead he rambles, flustered, ears burning.

“It’s not that I haven’t had sex, I have, I just didn’t feel very...engaged. It wasn’t as enjoyable as I thought it would be, far from it in fact. I guess it’s just not something I’d willingly choose to spend my time doing.” Emotional attraction dramatically outweighs the sexual one. Sex is off the table.

Bond regards him thoughtfully, considering the information. Q shifts, returning the glasses to his nose. Bond shrugs, taking a bite from the sandwich.

“Don’t get so flustered Q, as said, whatever float your boat.” Q smiles, and tries to hide the sigh of relief.

*

Overture for Don Quixote is playing as Q carefully assembles a new weapon, using a pair of tweezers to place a tracking chip. The apartment office works in a certain way; the semi circle desk, with three computers and the comfortable leather chair in the centre, and the work bench pushed to the back of the windowless room. There’s a lamp and a light box and an assorted mess of tools and wires. Originally it was for personal projects, repairing and modifying the technical gadgets he bought to make life that little easier. For the time being, it’s used to assemble custom weapons that are guaranteed not to blow up in his face, taking half the building with it.

“Something new to play with?” Bond asks from the door frame.

“First of all, Q-branch equipment are not play things. Secondly, it definitely isn’t yours to play with.” Gifts of guns and knives and weaponry have been suspended as far as 007 is concerned, along with the rest of his status. 

“Oh and James, could you do me a favour?”

“Depends.”

Q outstretches one arm behind him, waving the empty, stained tea mug in want of attention. There’s a sigh, but the mug is taken from him in order to be refilled, the alarm remaining silent despite the entrance.

Q isn’t sure when Bond turns into James, but it’s happened away, somewhere along the mutilated process of friendship. 

*

Before MI6, back before Q was Q, he worked part time as an illegal hacker. Businesses, newspapers and people who could afford to get away with it paid the Before Q to gathers blackmail worthy material on competitors, gather stock trading figures, gather anything and everything that was asked of him. On week day morning, he worked as an attendant at the National Gallery.

It all started when a large firm fired him from the shitty IT technician job he secured after coming out of university. When returning home to his equally as shitty two room (a bathroom and well...everything else) attic apartment with a leaking roof, he promptly uploaded a custom designed virus straight into said firm’s technical system.

Revenge still sits too sweet in his mouth.

Somewhere along the way, the police arrested him under suspicion of cyber terrorism. It wasn’t really cyber terrorism, not unless taking down a few website for a couple of hours in order to highlight their security errors counted as cyber terrorism. 

“You’ve got two options.” The interviewer in the car says. Before Q is on the back seat, hands cuffed behind his back, looking dreadful and out of place. A gutter fish upon expensive seats in a metal can worth more than the gutter pool he came from.  “It’s to serve your country or to serve your time.”

Before Q doesn’t reckon he would fare well in prison, too skinny, too bony, too intelligent for containment. The decision is unconditional.

To protect the very nation he was arrested for being a threat against; his life had become a fucking oxymoron.

*

The new Quartermaster had obliterated the old Quartermaster on the battlefield known as technology. Smashing he way through firewalls and complex security as if unpicking a simple bowed shoe lace, bricks of binary crumbling away  and leaving a neon bloodstain of the old Quartermaster in his wake. The hacking war won moments after his hands had been uncuffed.

The interviewers had the grace to look awe stricken. The position has been secured; Before Q simple became Q.

*

Needless to say, his mother believed the flimsy lie he spun. There has been no contact since. Almost a year has passed and the idea of being forgotten makes Q feel nothing inside.

*

Q is sat on the sofa with his laptop when the phone rings. It’s a cold evening and the hideous jumper he’s wearing is too big and a little itchy, but is warming his bone to the marrow. James is sat on the floor watching the 10 ‘o’ clock news, looking a little out of sorts with crisp shirts replaced with knitwear (knitwear which probably costs the same amount of as a small car but knitwear all the same).

He answers the phone.

“Q?”

“You called my number Eve, who else do you expect?” Eve exhales audibly as she speaks with such a hushed haste.

“I really shouldn’t tell you this Q, but you are a great value so it is only fare I forewarn you.”  It’s not the best way to start a conversation, and Q stands despite himself.

“What’s happened? Has the new grenade prototype blown up because if it has, I told them not to touch it until the formula had been finalized and-”

“No it’s not that.”

Oh.  Eve sighs on the other end, sounding forlorn.

“Considering everything that happened with Silva a number of things have been changing around here and, the court has purposed that...that MI6 suspend you until you have been security checked again.”

Q almost dropped the phone.  He knows that the heads haven’t been very warming to him since the damaged Silva caused. An old MI6 agent, one with technological knowledge to rival Q’s, no wonder he set them on edge. Q is younger, quick to adapt and change with detailed knowledge of the government’s security systems; one day maybe he would pose the same threat Silva had.

He had been under intense observation, this he was aware of, but suspension? Maybe even forced retirement? It made his mind stream stutter and glitch, binary codes tangling and messing to create a thought block. He sinks back down onto the sofa.

“Q? Are you there?” The phone is gripped too tightly in his hand.

“Yes.”

“Look, I’m sure it’s just been a bad day at the courts, M will fight your corner the best he can. Besides, suspension for security clearance shouldn’t take long.” Eve is trying to be reassuring; he prefers it when she’s brutally honest with him.

“Let’s face it, the government wants to bring in someone they have on hook and string. Thank you for informing me.”

“Q-”

“Goodnight Eve”

“...Goodnight Q.”

The line goes dead.

Q doesn’t answer James’ questioning look, just goes to bed and doesn’t sleep.

*

He’s up at 8am the next morning after three hours of restless sleep. James is already awake, placing a dirty plate in the dishwasher.

“Grab a coat, its cold outside.” Q throws the coat at James anyway, tugging on his own parka and checking the pockets.

“I’m under house arrest.” James say, pulling the coat on anyway.

“As far as I see it, I was told to keep my eye on you, which is what I’m doing. Also some exercise will keep you entertained.” Exercise always did the trick, Q was constantly having to step around James as he did sit ups or press ups.

“Good to know you’re not a total square Q.” James teases as they’re leaving the apartment building.

“You should know me better by now 007” Is the smirked response.

They take a bus towards Hyde Park, using pre-purchased oyster cards Q picked up in the newsagents a matter of moments ago.  It’s weird, to be sat on a bus with James Bond, looking like they lead totally ordinary lives. Q can’t imagine what an ordinary life must be like; what little passing taste of ordinary he has experienced wasn’t nice, like the stinging of too much salt on a burnt tongue.

People like the secret agent and the Quartermaster don’t fit into the jigsaw of ordinary life.

It’s a grey and somewhat freezing morning in Hyde Park, their breath fogs in the air and Q’s fingers go red at the tips.  Nevertheless there are still dedicated joggers in their running shorts, a couple walking arm in arm with bobble hats and take away coffee, some early budding tourists.

“All we need is a dog.” James muses aloud. Q rolls his eyes, a cigarette-from that packet at the back of the bedside draw- pursed between his lips. James has one eyebrow lifted in question as Q flicks on the lighter, cupping a hand around the flame for the end to catch. He coughs on the first inhale, not entirely used to smoke filling his lungs.

“This is a new development.” James says in what seem to be genuine curiosity.

“It’s not a habit; I make a point out of not being addicted to things.” A lie, Q is addicted to numbers, to code, to formula both mathematic and chemical, to the luminous light of a computer screen. “Would you like one?”

James accepts without hesitation, taking the offered lighter and using the high collar of his coat as shelter. The twin plumes of exhaled cigarette smoke rise up, twist and mingle on the upwards journey before vanishing, seemingly, into nothing.

Q tells James about the suspension threat, about what ‘suspension’ really meant in this case.

“I can’t imagine not being there, not after all it’s done for me.” The way the information relay has jammed and clustered in reaction to the news, what if that was to happens again, only this time, not give way? The world is a cruel place, even for brains like his.

James at least looks sympathetic.

The world has no place for dusty old gunslingers and neon brained geniuses.

*

Two days later, Q is called in. Completely failing at optimism, Q walks with lead in his shoes, thinking the delicate cold sunlight breaking through the clouds is grossly inappropriate.

Yet again, he’s stood in the office he rarely steps in, staring at that proud painting. Most would compare it to a circle, but not Q. Because this is the end, and any fool would know a circle has no beginning or end, just an infinite amount of sides.

“It’s an extended holiday Q; one best advised by the court, you have worked very hard for someone so young.” It’s enough that M is bullshitting him, there’s no need for the age card to come into play.

“Excuse me for speaking boldly sir.” Q starts, he’s never been one for being walked all over “But I have served my country better than some twice my age, and I’m doing even more than what is asked of me to keep it safe.”

“You will not argue with me Q” M warns, tone almost scolding. 

“I have done nothing but keep fellow agents and the rest of the country safe. I have shown no malicious intentions and the fact I have not been allowed to state my claim, or even explain myself in court is grossly inappropriate if not damning. This so called ‘holiday’ is an unjust and undeserved product of fear.”

“That’s enough.” M snaps as Q’s temper shows. Q shuts his mouth, well aware of when the match is over. “Your access to MI6 files will be cut and an escort will be round to your apartment shortly to collect your home projects. Attempt to access any secret service data or the building will result in your immediate arrest. Please leave your security badge at the door.  You have served your country well.”

Q nods curtly, limbs stiff. Thank you, he says, as he leaves his badge on M’s desk instead.

*

Fretting is the only word to describe Q’s behaviour as the service men start taking away his equipment.

“Careful that is extremely delicate and should be given to the development crew as soon as possible. They will know about the tweaks I’ve made. It also cost almost a third of our budge to create, so it’s pretty much irreplaceable.” 

The service man looks like he’s going to punch Q in the face with his meaty fist, but he nods regardless and takes the half assembled weapon prototype away. It followed by his computers and even his personal laptop he’s had since a teenager (an event which particularly upset an already distraught Q).

The office is empty, a void, disrupted only by the now empty desks, a chair and a stereo system. Q sits in the empty room, knees up to his chest in the leather chair feeling empty. They’ve taken his livelihood away, all the radio waves of emotion removed, leaving only a numb and mistreated model in its place.  Moonlight Sonata is playing on loop.

James eventually approaches, over two hours since the ordeal passed. Q hasn’t moved an inch, just sits there with his eyes closed, glasses set aside. James is a simple blur when he opens his eyes.

“Getting drunk always helps.” James says crouched in front of the chair.

“Indeed it does.” Q turns the chair around and slips off onto his feet, ready to make a B-line for the fridge.

“Get dressed in something nicer first, I can’t spend another moment in this flat.”

Much to his own irritation, Q replaces his baggy jumper and trousers with a pair of black jeans that are a little too tight for his liking and a shirt (it’s yet to be ironed but he’s not trying too hard.) He laces up a worn pair of boots with one of those stupid floppy tongues and shrugs the much beloved parka over his shoulders.

“Do you not own any other coat?” James asks, dressed in trousers and thick black coat. He’s much more striking than Q ever is.

“Believe it or not, but this is the only coat I own.” They share a tiny smile in the lobby.

James takes him to a bar not far away from the apartment. It’s not an expensive bar where everyone acts respectfully; it’s just a place where ordinary people drink after their tiring ordinary day.

Q feels out of place and out of sorts, but feels oddly comfortable with hard liquor in hand and James Bond at his side. Drinking cocktails makes the sense go faster, crystals of salt sparkling on Q’s top lip after the second margarita.

“I don’t know what I’m going to do now.” He sullenly admits. “A shame, how something can come and consume ones entire existence. All rather co-dependent.”

“I know what I’m going to do.” James waves at the bar tender, requesting a line of mixed shots. “I’m going to fucking drink.”

It’s fast becoming a contest to see who can drink the most. The shots are lines up on the bar, every vial liquid staining Q’s livers with their own poisonous brand. James out drinks him straight away, more used to handling the alcohol. Strangers are watching them, cheering when Q successfully completes a tequila slammer, eyes screwing shut whilst sucking lemon juice. It makes him feel positively sick.

The emptiness inside has been warmed but not dismissed.

At one point James pats him on the back and says

“I was always told not to fall in love with anything. When it goes away, it hurts like a bitch doesn’t it Q.”

Q doesn’t understand.

*

At some point (near midnight maybe, he’s not sure) Q’s phone rings in the parka coat’s pocket. He fumbled with the touch screen, leaning back in the seat. He’s not aware of how bad he is compared to Bond. The syllables drag on the ‘helloooo’

“Jesus Christ Q are you drunk?” Eve hisses down the phone, evidentially just finishing up her shift at MI6

“Possibly just a tad.” His tongue slips on the double s. There’s an infuriated sigh. Funny, the only people Q ever made feel openly infuriated were his second rate teaches, teaching him shit that was way too easy.

“Tell me you’re not on your own.”

“Of course not, you know who I’m with?”

“I’m pretty sure I can guess. Tell me where you are and I’ll pick you up.” After a minute or two of protest, Q reluctantly surrenders the location.

“How could you let him get into such a state?” Eve almost shouts at Bond when she arrives; keeping Q upright as he tries to hug her. She smells sweet (Q can’t quite pinpoint the smell, he doesn’t really remember, the relay of information has crashed)

“How could you let him get fired?”

“You know I don’t have a say in this, neither do you for that matter.”

“I’m helping him out.”

“Really? This is helping him? He can barely stand.”

“I have ears you know.” Q interrupts, not enjoying the sensation of people speaking about him but not directly to him. It was an experience endured too many times as a shy child. Eventually the two settle their bickering, Eve grabbing the coat with James supporting Q when his steps go lopsided, half stumbling up the stair to the apartment. The jolt of the elevator would make his stomach churn in an unpleasant way if they’d decided to go that way.

He fumbles with the security card and types in the manual overwrite when he can’t seem to get it working. Numbers will always have that special place in his head, even when totally drunk.

At least he’s not in such a state that he can’t get undressed and into bed by himself. It’s either out of stubborn nature or that nagging feeling never to make a total fool of himself, but Q makes a point out of accomplishing things on his own.

*

Someone, (most likely Eve ) had the courtesy to place a bucket at the side of the bed; one Q is particular happy about when he wakes up to vomit the contents of half his stomach into said bucket. He wakes with a sudden longing for his computer, the first edition netbook that has been customized and redeveloped to keep up with the changing times. In his opinion it’s better than any Apple product...and even that has been taken away.

But at least vomiting has made his stomach settle.

Lying in the dark, Q remembers what James said somewhere in the haze that was last night’s drunken disaster.  _“I was always told not to fall in love with anything. When it goes away, it hurts like a bitch doesn’t it Q.”_

Thinking about it now; Q thinks, yes, yes it does hurt like a fucking bitch.

*

It’s not fundamentally right for someone to say they love their computer more than any human being, but it’s true nonetheless.

Sometimes, if Q allows himself to, he’s fairly certain he loves technology more than he ever has his own mother.

Having his lover confiscated under false pretence hurts like a fucking bitch

*

Lying in the dark makes one think about the strangest things. Q briefly considers the collection of scrabble mugs he owns, stacked along the top shelve of one kitchen cabinet. His favourite one, the one he always takes to work because he appreciates the pun, is probably staked away in storage never to be seen again.

He tracks the sound of 007 shuffling around beyond the closed bedroom door. Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom and back again. At least Bond has the respect not to come knocking.

*

There’s a sudden jolt of dread when Q realizes that the single letter title is no longer his. Going back to Before Q feels dirty, an old life thrown and swept away, an old life that never quite fit his person. Q is simpler, non-descript, round in the mouth and so much unlike the jumble of syllables his previous name had. Q is sleek and whole, a singular amongst the alphabet, a part of a code waiting to be hacked.

Q is no more.

*

When working from home, pyjamas are a comfortable way to enjoy the home experience. Pyjamas are now the  one thing Q lives in. He emerges from his bedroom at 1am, flannel trousers and a t-shirt with ‘love is dead’ typed across the chest.  It was a gift from the man who lived in the flat bellow him before Q joined MI6, part of some abstract way of advertising a t-shirt printing business that never took for the ground.

Bond isn’t in the kitchen or the living room, so Q dials the number for both the pizza delivery service and the Chinese down the street, ordering a ridiculous amount from the menus. The pizzas he’ll eat now, the Chinese he’ll store for tomorrow.

Whilst he waits for the fast food, Q boots up a long neglected Xbox to take his out anger on zombie shaped pixels. Virtual blood splatters the screen and the mangled cries alongside the clatter of a gun fill the room.

“And to think, I was starting to see you as less of a teenager.” James mocks from his bedroom door, watching with folded arms and a hint of amusement at the mindless slaughter.

“Not all of us can handle killing in the virtual world. Besides, I have a nerd reputation to protect.”  The virtual Q abandons the destroyed gun and slashes the nearest zombie with a knife instead, fingers clacking buttons. He may be a terrible shot in the real world, but in the gaming world he’s a force to be feared.

“There’s pizza if you want some, or Chinese in the fridge.” James declines in favour for some recently bought scotch and retires to his bedroom.

*

“Do you own any trainers?” Bond asks when a sleepy Q blinks his eyes open. He’s curled up on the couch, TV still on standby, a dried trail of drool clinging to his cheek.  He wipes it away, rubbing his eyes and reaching for his glasses that fell from his face at some point during the sleep deprived crash.

“Why?” He croaks.

“Because we’re going jogging. I need to maintain fitness and your health is going to deteriorate if you keep this up.” James is gesturing to the take away and energy drinks, then to Q’s lanky frame. A muscled physique isn’t one a man formally working in Q-Branch needs to have; you don’t need huge biceps to create trouble with a keyboard.  Fitness has never been a top priority.

“Careful 007, it’s starting to look like you care.” Q’s feeling catty and sour and the last thing he wants is to go jogging.

“You won’t be saying that once we get started, go get dressed.”

There’s no getting out of it, and not wanting to look like a (for lack of better words) stroppy teenager, Q reluctantly obeys.  The old MI6 training gear he used to wear during the initial training program when first joining MI6, still lies at the back of his wardrobe, the royal blue sweat suit ill fitting and uncomfortable. The trainers are still comfy though, laces clean from lack of use. James looks like he wants to burst out laughing when Q slinks out, feeling ridiculous.

“My, I do think that look rather suits you” It’s a mocking lie

“The fashion advice is always welcome”

Outside it’s chilly to say the least. Q finds himself shivering, sighing when Bond goes bounding off down the street without him. The posh business men and women he shares a building with are looking down their high and mighty noses at the young protégé. Seeing as all dignity has been lost, Q sighs and wills his limbs into moving.

There’s a small burst of confident at first, the running is smooth and he doesn’t feel like he’s going to fall over just yet. James is only a few strides ahead and maybe, if he pushes the pace, he’ll overtake the agent. Which is exactly what he decides to do.

The confidence lasts for another five minutes, up until the point where Q finds himself walking and heaving in mouthfuls of air as his limps are reduced to jelly. It feels like he’s having a heart attack. Bond comes jogging round the corner only moments later, looking completely unfazed like he’s merely strolling along. Of course he would, Bond is a double-oh after all, they _need_ to be fit.

Q doesn’t need to be fit.

“Come on, you’ve barely ran a mile.” James urges, jogging on the spot when Q grinds to a stop. Q glares, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, leaning heavily against the nearest wall. Passerby are looking at them oddly, making the humiliations just that bit more biting.

“My job doesn’t entitle me to run miles. In fact right now, my job entitles me to sit in my house all day whilst looking for a new occupation.” James stops jogging in place, rolls his eyes and sighs in what must be frustration. Never did Q think he’d see the day that James Bond got angry at him, it was normally the other way around.

“That’s it? You’re giving up so quickly” It wasn’t meant in terms of jogging distance. Not put up for a verbal battering, Q straightens, squaring up to Bond the best he can.

“Not all of us are gifted with resurrection.” The tone of voice is a mixture of solemn anger and Q breaks the eye contact in order to retreat back home.

*

Unsurprisingly, Bond doesn’t return to the apartment.

For a moment Q is worried he’s lost the agent under his supervision, but then remembers, it’s not any of his concern anymore.

*

A call comes through two days later. It’s Tanner, saying 007’s suspension has been lifted and he returns to active training. Q says he understands when Tanner tells him that no more information can be released and hangs up.

*

Living without James Bond is also surprisingly easy to slip back into. One would think 007 would leave a high impact on his home life during their time together, but Bond has no belongings and is training to leave without a noticeable trace.

Either that or Q is naturally built to live alone.

The classical music is shut off, replaced with Weezer and Jimi Hendrix. Before Q starts to re-emerge in small parts; he starts singing in the shower again, starts renewing his sleep pattern, starts watching bad day time telly under a duvet. He considers getting a cat for company, seeing as there is now time to take care of something other than a rock.

Despite everything, Q starts repairing the broken toaster when in need of something to tinker with, starts doing daily crosswords in the newspaper, digs out an old rubik cube he already knows how to solve. The big project though, is rebuilding a computer from the spare parts that weren’t confiscated. It’s a long a troublesome process, one that will take months to complete, but at least it passes the long hours.

All the while he sings along to ‘Pork and Beans’ and ‘Purple Haze’

*

Two weeks pass since the permanent suspension came into play when Q gets yet another phone call. He’s drinking soup and watching ‘Daybreak’ in his pyjamas when the touch screen phone lights up with an unknown number.

“Hello?”

“Q, this is M, we need your help.” Q jumps to attention, almost spilling the soup all over the floor in his haste to untangle himself from the duvet.

“I’m afraid I don’t work for MI6 anymore.” He still can’t help himself.

“Now is not the time.” M snaps “To put it lightly, the Quartermaster the government suggested to replace you is not competent enough and it seems we’re in need of your expertise before the whole thing goes down shit creak.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“The drive we received from China, the twin is being hacked; we need you to intercept the data.”

“But I completed the analysis, all the needed information should be loaded either onto the drive itself or into a report.”

“It was taken for security check, along with the rest of your things.” Q doesn’t pretend to hide the sigh of frustration, scrubbing one hand through is hair.

“Well it would be easier if you hadn’t removed my computers from my possession.”

“Find one then, before the whole thing cocks up.” Cursing under his breath, Q holds the phone to his ear as he rushes out of the apartment. He bolts down the corridor to the neighbouring flat, knocking repeatedly on the door. There’s no answer.

Shit

Shit

Shit

He rushes back to his apartment to grab a tool book.

“What the bloody hell is taking so long Q?” M hisses.

“Just give a few damn minutes. Tanner, if you can hear me make sure Q-branch are aware of the situation, they should be able to put appropriate blocks into place to slow the process down.”

Jamming the phone between ear and shoulder, Q crouches in front of the security panel, using a screwdriver to unbolt it from the wall. Wires cling to the panel, stretching as it’s removed from the wall. It’s child play really, digging about for the appropriate circuit board. There’s a click and the door opens when Q kicks it hard enough. There’s no time to replace the panel on the wall, instead he scampers to find the nearest piece of technology; a laptop left on a bedside table.

Bypassing all the security and accessing the MI6 network takes no time at all.

“M, I’m in, is it possible to make the drive in our possession available to me?” A few minutes pass until a window pops up, streams upon stream of coding scrolling down the screen.

“Wonderful, now gentlemen I’d appreciate it if you could refrain from shouting at me. Also patch me through to my department” There’s silence on the other end as Q gets to work, hiding the important codes with layers of false encryption. The rest of Q-branch are settled trying to trace the source, tracking through thousands of servers across the globe as Q prevents the cyber attack the best he can.

Q wishes he had time for coffee or a cup of tea, maybe even some breakfast. His knuckles are hurting but the keyboard is his kingdom, where he still rules despite the absence.

“Q, I believe we have tracked the source.” A member of Q-branch pipes up.

“Wonderful work, send the signal to Tanner and get a squad assembled, I’m just working on shutting them down.”

A few final blows of coding and the hack is shut down, firewall barely broken. Q sits back, and cracks his knuckles, enjoying the popping sensation. He successfully wipes all trace of his access from the stranger’s laptop.

“So Q.” M says over the phone. “If I am able to convince the court, how would you like your job back?”

Q smiles, and there’s finally a flicker of emotion filling the empty space.

“I would be most honoured sir.”

*

It’s like the second coming of Christ when Q finally returns to the white space of his department three days later. The room falls silent of clacking and chatter when Q strolls in, comfortable jeans, shirts and cardigan, looking as professional as he can manage on a good day.

It’s hard to remain serious; it’s like returning home from an extremely bad holiday. Home to the comfortable nerdom that is Q-branch. Home to where the people are all alike, discussing the recent discovery by NASA, criticizing new technology being released by Apple or Microsoft, making bad math puns when the day is long. Where everyone travels on the same wavelength.

Someone hands him a cup of tea in his much missed Q 10 scrabble mug. He leans back against his station, looking at the rest of the room, each person poised at their computer desks.

“Good morning ladies and gentlemen” The simple greeting is met by an uproar of cheering, each person suddenly rising from their seat to deliver welcoming back pats and squeezes to the forearm. They’re happy to see him, happy to have him back and Q absorbs that. Never, has he been this well liked and it makes him beams despite himself. Here, down in the bunker of MI6, is the true happiness Q has searched for all his life.

“That’s enough, the nation cannot wait for welcome parties, there is still a lot of work to do.” Q orders after about five minute, when everything is starting to get a little too much despite the warm buzz rattling his bones. He’s about to take his seat when Q spots Eve towards the entrance.

“Welcome back Quartermaster, M sends his regards.” Eve greets as Q approached, a sly smile on her lips. She looks genuinely pleased.

“It’s good to be back Miss Moneypenny, tell M his regards are well received.” Her smile somehow deepens without growing larger and she holds a file out to him.

“Here is today’s brief. 007 is returning to the field today, make sure he is suitably equipped.”

Q nods as she turns away.

*

“I hear you have gifts for me.” 007 says, sliding up to Q’s work station around midday.

“Not gifts, just necessities. Necessities that must not be lost may I add.” Q says, rising to grab a case from a nearby shelf. Inside there is a heat seeking gun, and two drives containing deadly viruses.

“That I cannot promise.” There’s a knowing smirk as Bond takes the case. It’s all professional as Q explains the works of the equipment and how best to use them. Bond nods once in understanding and makes to leave.

He pauses at the entrance.

“I knew you wouldn’t give up so quickly.” He mutters before breezing away. Q catches it on the way out, stores it away in his smirk as he takes a sip from the mug. 


End file.
